


touch

by aparticularbandit



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit
Summary: rose and luisa and angry crying.





	touch

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

The motel in Fort Lauderdale wasn’t anything to write home about, just a little shabby building where students in teen movies might rent a hotel room after prom, which was almost the way this felt, only she was over a decade too old, _not_ drunk off her ass, and with an attractive young woman instead of an _unattractive_ young man.  (Where did those movies get their actors with their stubbly faces and that cold physique they think is marketable?  Why _was_ it marketable?  She’d always been much more interested in the female love interest than the dime-a-dozen white guy who was supposed to be her Prince Charming.)  The rooms were laughably easy to break into with doors that may have offered two kinds of locks but could be swept off their hinges quite easily by the equally dime-a-dozen superheroes that movies were only just beginning to shove down her throat.  A supervillain could hide in one of these rooms and only leave for the free breakfast or to get some powdered donuts from the vending machine in the room just off of the stairs.

The air conditioner made a noise like a stifled groan as it turned on, shuddering to provide adequate air to the women still hot and sticky from sex and pool and sex and shower and more sex in the one tiny bed with the Hawaiian floral print comforter and sheets of some undistinguishable shade of fuzzy green.  The longer they’d been in the room, the less any of that had remained on the bed – the comforter was discarded on the floor somewhere on top of their clothes, the sheets dangling over their shoes but still tangled where they were tucked into the edge of the bed.  A glistening sheen of sweat coated her tanned skin, mimicked by that covering the woman hovering just above her, calling attention to the freckles dotting skin untouched by the sun.

The woman’s fingers brushed through her hair – still damp, but the shower had been long enough past that it was starting to dry in tufts – grazing her cheek as she did so, and Luisa flinched as though struck, jaw set as she turned her head away.

It wasn’t _fair_ , she knew that.  The word was common vocabulary now, and it didn’t mean to anyone else what it meant to her.  In fact, _she_ used it sometimes as a general expression in the same way Rose just had.  It shouldn’t hurt the way it did.

But that didn’t stop the word from sending sharp, cold daggers beneath her skin, didn’t stop the tightening around her heart.  It was almost _worse_ now.  After hours and hours of raw, passionate, _desperate_ sex, she was exhausted.  In a _good_ way, of course, but it meant that her already sometimes overwhelming emotions were much closer to the surface than they already were, that the heart she already wore exposed on her sleeve were anyone could see it was that much more open to—  
  
Her teeth gritted together, jaw working silently as she tried – _and failed_ – to keep the tears from filling her eyes.

“Luisa?”

She already loved the way the other woman said her name, which was frankly horrible for what she expected was only meant to be a one-night stand (although she’d begun to hope it would be something more), and when she didn’t turn her face (because, really, who cries during a one-night stand?  _her_ , of course.  it’s so faux pas), Rose lay down on her side facing her, propping herself up with one elbow.  It was almost impossible to avoid looking at her, and Luisa saw the barest hint of confusion in her expression, a complete change from the smiles and laughter of only a moment before, before she dropped her head, ashamed, refusing to look up.

But her attempts to hide didn’t work – the other woman all too gently lifting her chin so that she could search her eyes.  “What’s wrong?”

Luisa shook her head, glancing down as Rose brushed her fingers along the tears now rolling down her cheek.

“Tell me,” she said with the plea of a teenager desiring some juicy bit of gossip, then her voice softened, still pleading.  “Tell me so I can make sure not to do it again.”

Her head tilted forward in an attempt at a nod.  “I’m not crazy,” Luisa whispered, and her eyes flicked up to meet Rose’s briefly before looking downward again.

The other woman remained silent for a few moments, as though expecting her to continue, likely because she _had_ been continuing when the questions were asked in-between scattered moments of passion often only to be broken by the distraction of that same passion.  But this time, Luisa didn’t continue.  The stories of her childhood, of her mother, of hearing her father shout that she was going crazy whenever he lost his temper in those months leading up to her death, weren’t the kind of stories you tell in situations like this, and her own temporary loss of sanity during her residency was far too personal to be brought up at all.

“Ok,” the woman said after a few minutes of silence, and she lifted Luisa’s chin again so that she could look into her eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”  Luisa took a deep breath then let it out, nodding so that her gaze continued to avoid the other’s.  “I know.  No one ever really does.  It’s just a huge turn-off for me.”

 _More_ than a huge turn-off.  Making it seem that casual felt wrong somehow, like she was lying.  She wasn’t.  Not exactly.  It _was_ a turn-off.  Just maybe not as huge as she was making it out to be.

—tears notwithstanding.

“Ok.  Then I won’t use it again.”

Rose brushed her thumb along Luisa’s cheek, and Luisa curved her head to press a kiss to the center of her palm.  She glanced up to meet the other woman’s eyes, her thanks blatant and inaudible, and when the other woman leaned down to kiss her again, it didn’t hold the same raw desperation that it had each time before.  Although no less passionate, this was much more soothing, much more gentle, and Luisa relaxed into her touch as though something delicate and fragile.

* * *

 

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, and the words were rough, raw as they rubbed against the back of her throat, that same scratchy feeling she had when she was sick and her nose was all clogged up and that same soreness that came from crying too loud for too long.

“I know.”

Rose reached forward, and Luisa pulled her head back, eyes narrowed.  “I thought you were dead _and it was my fault_.”  Her voice was soft because she could feel the need to yell tight in her skin, felt everything tensing to keep her from snapping, but here it was anyway, that temper of hers that rarely ever showed its head because she was rarely _mad enough_ for it to happen.  “I was _drinking again_ , Rose.  Because of _you_.”

“I told you to go to rehab.”

“ _You could have told me you weren’t dead!_ ”

Tears crept into the corner of her eyes – _traitors!_   why can’t she be mad even _once_ without having this overwhelming need to _cry_! – and when Rose reached out for her again, she flinched back again.  She didn’t _want_ to be touched ( _she did, she did_ ); she didn’t _want_ to be comforted ( _she did, she did_ ); and she certainly didn’t want _Rose_ to do _either_ of those ( **she did; she did** ).  Her hands clenched into fists, just as quickly unclenched, eyes widening as though that would keep the tears from trickling down her cheeks.  This wasn’t even _cute_ crying or _sad_ crying; the tears were just as hot and angry as she was, and when they spilled, they burned trails along her skin.  She sat down, hard, on the edge of their bed, and her fingers gripped the mattress instead, digging into the thick comforter.

“Luisa,” Rose began, and she sat down on the edge of the bed next to her.

“Don’t,” Luisa said, scooting away from her.  She looked down into her lap, looking at the folds of the fabric of her blue plaited skirt.

“I was planning to tell you.”

“When?”  Luisa looked up, incredulous.  “You’d had _months_ , Rose.  Months of me sitting in rehab, convincing myself that—”

“That what?”

Luisa shook her head and looked down again, back to the patterns in her skirt.  “It doesn’t matter.”

It _did_ , but she had no desire to say anything of that sort now.  She didn’t want to explain any of that.  It was important, but it wasn’t.  In her refusal to speak, the submarine languished into silence, other than the bubbling of the water outside.  Sometimes, when they were moving, it felt like she was a fish in a bowl.  Watching the creatures outside their windows was a nice pastime while she thought over her options.  Not even thinking over her options.  She was never very good at these kinds of decisions.

“I was going to tell you after Michael’s wedding,” Rose said finally, breaking the silence.  “I’d gone to get a package of donuts when he realized I wasn’t who he thought I was.”

When Luisa glanced over to her, she saw that Rose wasn’t looking down the way she might during this sort of explanation.  Rose wasn’t _ashamed_ of herself in the slightest.  If anything, her expression was one that seemed _earnest_ , as though she was certain that Luisa would believe her if she told her what she asked.

“I couldn’t tell you during the investigation, and as soon as I got you out of rehab, we had the wedding.  It seemed like he would be most distracted then, and he wouldn’t notice if you—”

“If I _what_?”

It was dangerous, the expression on her face, and her jaw clenched together, tight the way Rose’s was whenever she used to mention Allison (and she wanted to do so now, she felt _petty_ , even though she knew she wouldn’t – she had once before, twice, _multiple_ times, but it wasn’t necessary here, now).  Her eyes flashed dangerously, throat burning.

“If you decided you didn’t want anything to do with me again.”  This time, it was Rose who continued without letting her get a word in edgewise, fingers tapping a little pattern on the bed.  “You had before, you know, and I knew you didn’t want to see me, and I was afraid, if you knew who I was, you would—”

“Turn you over to the police?”

“Hate me,” Rose finished.  “I’d be _gone_ before you went to the police, Luisa.  Just like I left when Michael found out.”

“And kidnapped me.”

“You deserved an explanation.”

“You’re right!  I _did_!”  Luisa’s lips pressed together.  “But not like _this_.  Not…not _kidnapped_.  Not where I don’t have a choice—”

“You **do** have a choice, Luisa.  You just haven’t made it.”

“But I shouldn’t be _stuck on a submarine_ while I make that choice.”  Luisa looked up at Rose, shaking her head once.  “Don’t you get that?”

Rose’s eyes searched her face, expression a mixed painting of confusion and concern, and Luisa could feel her anger ebbing away.  The emotion was like the moon when it came to the other woman.  Sometimes it ebbed, and other times it waned, and each time this particular set of circumstances arose, the less hot her anger ran.  This time, _she_ reached out, fingers tracing the sharp edges of the redhead’s cheekbones, the harsh line of her jaw, the softer crinkles of hair that was so much darker than it had ever been when she was her stepmother.

“I miss the red,” she murmured, pulling one strand into the light and running it between her thumb and forefinger.  “I like this, I really do, but I like the red, too.”

“I can change it back, if you want.”

“No,” Luisa said with a shake of her head.  “It should be whatever you want it to be.  It’s _your_ hair.”

There was silence again as Rose tilted her head forward.  “Does this mean you _didn’t_ think the kidnapping was romantic?”

“No!”  Luisa looked up sharply only to find Rose grinning at her with her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth.  Luisa just shook her head.  “I mean, _yes_.  I mean, _no_ , I _don’t_ think it was romantic.  I mean, _you shouldn’t kidnap people, Rose_!”  But she knew from her expression that Rose was joking, and she couldn’t help but lean forward and press a quick peck to the other woman’s lips.

“Then I won’t do it again.”

When Rose leaned forward, chasing her kiss, Luisa held up a finger to her lips, only to be given a confused, worried expression.

“I’m still mad at you.”

Rose’s expression contorted into a pout.  “So?”

Luisa pressed forward and gave her another quick peck.  “You don’t get a reward while I’m mad.  You just have to wait for me to cool off.”

Then Rose’s expression turned into a frown.  “You’ve been mad with me this entire trip, and that hasn’t stopped you before.”

“Sometimes I can be distracted.”

Rose grinned mischievously.  “Then let me distract you.”  She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Luisa’s neck.

For a moment, Luisa could feel herself melting, but then she pulled away, pushing Rose back with a playful shove.  “I said _no_ , Rose.  And no means no.”

“You didn’t actually say _no_ ,” Rose said, with another pout.  “You just said you were still mad at me.  That’s not a _no_.”

“Then here it is.  _No_.”  Luisa paused.  “Not until after dinner, at least.”

“After dinner?”  Rose grinned.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And she did.

* * *

 

“How could you _do_ that?”

Luisa stared through the glass at the woman who she had once called the love of her life, one hand tight on the black phone held against her ear, the other clenched into an equally tight little ball in her lap.  Her nails dug into her palm so hard that she’d be afraid she would break the skin if she didn’t know better.  She wanted to yell, to scream through the phone because maybe that would drill it into the other woman’s head how _upset_ she was.  But her words came out in a hiss, in a voice so quiet that it scratched roughly along the back of her throat and tore the words out in a startled, angry whisper.

“What else was I supposed to do?” Rose asked, her voice a quiet hush.  “You made me promise not to kill anyone – a promise I _kept_ by the way—”

“You _loopholed_ around it!”

“I don’t see what the problem is!  I was keeping us _safe_!  Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I didn’t want you to _hurt_ anyone!”

Luisa’s hand flew out from her lap towards the glass between her and the other woman, but it stopped short and pounded the counter in front of her instead.  She bit hard on her lower lip, teeth digging in just as much as her nails had in her palm, only her teeth could draw blood – little nicks and she could taste it copper on her tongue.  Tears leapt to her eyes as she looked down at her hand.

This was her fault.

Well.  It _wasn’t_ her fault.  Normal people understood that killing people wasn’t good.  Normal people understood that _electrocuting someone until they had memory loss_ wasn’t good.  **Normal people wouldn’t need her to be that specific.**

But it _was_ her fault.  She should have _known_ to be specific.  She shouldn’t have just stopped with “no more killing people” and “no more crime lord stuff” and made it more general – “no more hurting people” and “no more torturing people”.  She hadn’t even _said_ the “no more crime lord stuff” because Rose said she’d given all of that up.  Maybe it was wrong for her to believe her.  Maybe—

“Luisa?”

It was in the way Rose said her name.  She was _sure_ of it.  There was something in the way her voice, so smooth and gentle, made her name sound so right.  She didn’t even have to look up – she’d memorized how Rose’s face looked in those moments.  It wasn’t the first time they’d had an argument that stopped with Rose being confused and curious, and it was always that same sort of _concern_ – like Rose finally understood that something she’d been doing was _wrong_ but didn’t know what it was.

Like a puppy finally understanding the word _no_ or a kitten who’d been playing with your fingers not understanding why you yelped when she finally nicked one.

Luisa looked up, and Rose’s hand was bare against the glass, as flat as she could make it.  That close, she could see the little cuts on her palm and around her fingers.  “You’re hurt,” she whispered.

“So are you.”

Luisa’s wet eyes glanced up towards Rose’s bright blue ones, but she stopped herself before they could meet.  She took a deep breath.  “Tell me you didn’t get the idea from me.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed.  “What idea?”

“Electroshock therapy.  For my hallucinations.  They said one of the side-effects was short-term memory loss, so I never—”  Luisa pressed her lips together and forced herself to swallow.  “I told you that’s why I never wanted to do it.  I told you I was terrified that one day I would _need_ it, that I wouldn’t…that I wouldn’t be able to tell what was real from what wasn’t.”

“I told you to focus on me.  I would always be real.”

“But you didn’t—”  Luisa didn’t look up, but she could see that Rose hadn’t moved, that her hand was still on the glass between them.  She wasn’t sure if Rose was waiting for her or if she thought that maybe if she kept her hand there long enough the glass would break.  “ _Michael_.  You didn’t…you didn’t use that for….”

“No,” Rose said, immediately, before Luisa could finish, while her voice was fading away.  “Luisa, I would _never_ do anything to hurt you.”

“Not intentionally.”

Luisa reached up and brushed a thumb under her eyes.  Angry tears or not, they didn’t do her any good here.  Crying wouldn’t help anyone.

“Luisa, if you don’t want me to do it again, I _won’t_.  You know that.”

Rose never sounded desperate.  She didn’t now.  Sometimes Luisa wished that she would.  Sometimes it felt like Rose thought she would never lose her, that there was never a risk of that.  And relationships – there shouldn’t be the risk of losing someone.  But still—

“I shouldn’t have to _tell you_ , Rose.  You should _know_ that I don’t want you to electrocute people until they forget everything.  And it shouldn’t _matter_ whether I’ve told you or not, you should just know to _not do it_.”  Luisa was hissing again, and her hand clenched into another little fist where she lay it on the counter.

“Luisa—”

“ _No_ , Rose.”

She didn’t want to look up.  She didn’t want to meet her eyes.  She was afraid of what would happen if she did.

They’d spent three years together, just the two of them, and they’d had more than that before then, more than she’d ever been able to share with anyone.  With Allison, things hadn’t been good, but at least she’d been able to share them with her friends.  She could say she was in love, she could pull out a picture of her girlfriend and show her off, she could be with her in public without being afraid that some policeman would chase them down (or her father would catch them long before that), but with Rose?  She’d never had any of that.  She never would.

“This is crazy, you know?”

“You’re not crazy, Luisa.”

She laughed a little then at Rose’s immediate response, just as quick as her own usually was.  “Maybe I am,” she admitted.  “Maybe this,” and she waved a hand between them, “this is a perfect example of it.”

“It’s not.”

“You _say_ that, but _you_ don’t know the difference between right and wrong.  You _torture people_ with no regard for—”

“I _stopped_.”

“Because I _told you_ to stop, not because you thought it was _wrong_.”

“But I still stopped.”

Luisa shook her head, lips curled back and pressed together, trying not to say anything.  She rocked back in her chair.  “I know you did,” she whispered.  “Thank you for trying.”

“ _Luisa._ ”

But Luisa wouldn’t even look at her as she placed the phone back in its spot, as she scooted her chair back, as she turned away and left without another word.

* * *

 

“Luisa.”

She heard her name spoken as soft as the rustle of the wind through the leaves outside her bedroom window, as gentle as the tapping of their branches against its pane.  Her eyes shut tight, and she winced, taking a deep breath to steady herself.  This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she was certain it wouldn’t be the last.

But even with her eyes shut tight, Luisa couldn’t prevent the hand that cupped her cheek, couldn’t prevent the touch like the brush of eyelashes along her skin, couldn’t prevent the tilt of her head towards its warmth or the parting of her lips for the ones grazing against her own.  It was the same as before, that silent communication from her lover to her, quiet as the touch of her fingertips against her skin, as the slight gasp as her lover’s thumb pressed against her throat, as she broke her kiss.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she murmured as the other woman brushed her nose against hers, as she lowered her head and the gaze she might have if she opened her eyes.  “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Do you not want me here?” the other woman asked, and even without opening her eyes, Luisa knew there was no confusion in her blue-eyed stare, only the faintest curiosity.  The fingers along her cheek began to trace the slope of her bone, the edges of her face, the strands of her hair pulled out of the untidy little ponytail she’d begun to wear when she started working at the inn.

It was easier to not say anything at all – far easier than it had always been to speak and rethink and continue to speak in an attempt to correct herself.  Maybe it wasn’t _easier_.  Maybe it was just _calmer_.

Luisa leaned forward to press a kiss to the woman’s cheek instead of verbally replying, moving to kiss the edge of her jaw, the skin of her neck, waiting for the hum of pleasure as the thumb on her throat applied a little more pressure.  Not choking her.  Even like this, she would never choke her, even if that was what she believed she deserved.  “Stay,” she whispered, and she could hear the way her own voice cracked with the weight of the word.  “Stay with me.”  The tiniest plea broke through her lips as her hand reached out to grab at the wrinkles of the other woman’s shirt.  “Please, _please_ stay.  Don’t ever leave me again.  _Please_.”

The woman curled her fingers beneath Luisa’s chin and lifted her face so that she could capture her lips once more with her own.  Luisa’s hand pushed through her soft red curls – she’d dyed them red again, their true color, not because she liked the red, but because she knew Luisa did – her hair was always red now, always, whenever Luisa saw her, even though—

Luisa broke away and lowered her head again and Rose lifted it enough so that their foreheads just touched.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, with that same mixture of confusion and curiosity.  “What did I do?” She brushed a hand through Luisa’s hair, pressed her lips to one of Luisa’s tears.  “Whatever it is, tell me, and I won’t do it again.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“You’re crying,” she said, her voice soft.  “I must have done something.  Tell me.”  That same childish desire as the first time they met, trying to understand, searching her face as though something in her expression would explain it.

Luisa kept her eyes closed.  She hadn’t opened them this entire time.  She hadn’t wanted to.  Her hand ran down Rose’s arm, pausing on the star-shaped scar where she’d been shot as Susanna Barnett before ending at her wrist, where she tightened her hold.  “You didn’t do anything,” was all she could say, a hollow echo of what she’d already said.

“Then why are you crying?”  Rose brushed a thumb along the edge of her eyes, drying her tears.  But it didn’t matter – as soon as she wiped them away, more appeared.

“I screwed up.”

Luisa could tell that Rose was shaking her head by the way her nose knocked against hers.  “You’re not a screw up, Luisa.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you thought.”

“It’s what I thought.”  Luisa tried to swallow around the lump in her throat, nodding once.  “It’s what I _know_.”

“It isn’t true.”

“ _It is._ ”

This time, Rose didn’t fight her.  Instead, she trailed her thumb across Luisa’s lip and kissed her again.  It didn’t help.  Once, it might have, but now it just made things worse.  It didn’t take long before—

“Why won’t you look at me?”

The question hung in the air between them, and Luisa began to shake.  “You’re here,” she whispered.  “That’s all that matters.  I don’t need to see you.  Not really.  I can already see you in here.”  She tapped the side of her head.

“ _Luisa._ ”  Rose’s voice was disappointed, mischievous.  “Why won’t you _look_ at me?”

Then came the gentle jab, the poke at her stomach, and without being able to see it, Luisa couldn’t dodge.  Her throat grew tight.  It was _worse_ when Rose began to tickle the sensitive skin of her waist, and she curled up onto one side, trying to swat away hands she couldn’t see.  “Stop!” she murmured, throat so tight it cut off the laughter she might once have had.  “ _Please_ , Rose!”

“ _Not until you open your eyes!_ ”

And – with a final gasp – with a final tightening of her closed eyes, a final failed attempt to keep them closed – with the heat of Rose’s breath just above her, dusting her skin – she opened them, unable to keep them closed any longer.

She was met with nothing.

She knew better than to cast her eyes about the room, knew that she wouldn’t see anything more than the furniture – her desk, her bed, her chest of drawers.

Her teeth dug into her lower lip, hand still curled around the fabric of a woman who hadn’t ever been there to touch.

**Author's Note:**

> side-note: assume rose is dead during the last part, because i do think that's where canon is heading.


End file.
